Bitter Sweetness
For many years, I mentored a young woman who is now in her late 20s.
She and her family arrived in the US as legal refugees when she was about 14. She could only read English on a kindergarten level, having learned what little she learned in the camp school. What she could do, though, was play the piano. No one quite knows where her talent came from, but it was fierce. She had learned to play Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata on a plastic keyboard with about 3 octaves of keys.
Within a year here, in a wonderful school for refugee girls, my lovely mentee was studying piano with me at a very high level and had increased her English speaking and reading from zero to “we think she can graduate from this program a year early and go to high school with her peers.”
She was, and is, a marvel. I love her dearly, my “other daughter.”
I worked with her through middle school, private high school (on a full scholarship) and even into college (more scholarships) - helping her family get settled, buy their first car, their house, fill out financial aid forms for their daughter.
It’s been a journey. It’s hard to say who learned more in the process, the family, or me.
I will go down this tangent, and then back to the story - Most Americans have no idea at all what legal refugees have to go through to get here. Her parents were in a refugee camp for more than 25 years, from the time they were teens, until they were finally granted asylum in the US in their 40s. Every year they applied to get out. Every year they were vetted and approved. Then they waited. Finally, it was their turn to go. They had exactly 6 months to pay back their airfare. They were given an apartment for a month and then the rent was theirs. They were given English classes and job training for about 3 months. After that, you are on your own. It’s not easy. You have to work hard at menial jobs. The thought that we are now displacing these people, who contribute to the lowest levels of our economy cheerfully, happy to be here, who work for next to nothing 6+ days a week, is disgusting. It’s awful. In a normal world, it would be illegal. End of rant.
During my mentee’s senior year of high school, we went on a college visiting trip. I took her to Maryland, to see a couple of colleges I thought might be a good fit if she were willing to go that far from her family.
She wasn’t, but we had a lovely trip anyway.
At some point, she asked me to show her my houses. I’d owned 3 over 25 years in the area, so that sounded like fun. Going back “home” is never really what we expect, however.
My former houses were different in all the predictable ways - and that was just on the outside. I think the most painful part for me, as a gardener, is seeing my gardens decimated, or planted over with lawn. I put love and time and energy into growing them, and I really wanted them to succeed.
I’ve also put love and time and energy into the daughters I’ve been fortunate enough to raise. I want them to succeed and flourish. Seeing my “other daughter” living in fear of deportation and daily stress for her community is quite the opposite from what I hoped for for her as an American citizen, which she became before she went off to college.
At this point, US citizenship doesn’t mean as much as it should.
She and her family arrived in the US as legal refugees when she was about 14. She could only read English on a kindergarten level, having learned what little she learned in the camp school. What she could do, though, was play the piano. No one quite knows where her talent came from, but it was fierce. She had learned to play Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata on a plastic keyboard with about 3 octaves of keys.
Within a year here, in a wonderful school for refugee girls, my lovely mentee was studying piano with me at a very high level and had increased her English speaking and reading from zero to “we think she can graduate from this program a year early and go to high school with her peers.”
She was, and is, a marvel. I love her dearly, my “other daughter.”
I worked with her through middle school, private high school (on a full scholarship) and even into college (more scholarships) - helping her family get settled, buy their first car, their house, fill out financial aid forms for their daughter.
It’s been a journey. It’s hard to say who learned more in the process, the family, or me.
I will go down this tangent, and then back to the story - Most Americans have no idea at all what legal refugees have to go through to get here. Her parents were in a refugee camp for more than 25 years, from the time they were teens, until they were finally granted asylum in the US in their 40s. Every year they applied to get out. Every year they were vetted and approved. Then they waited. Finally, it was their turn to go. They had exactly 6 months to pay back their airfare. They were given an apartment for a month and then the rent was theirs. They were given English classes and job training for about 3 months. After that, you are on your own. It’s not easy. You have to work hard at menial jobs. The thought that we are now displacing these people, who contribute to the lowest levels of our economy cheerfully, happy to be here, who work for next to nothing 6+ days a week, is disgusting. It’s awful. In a normal world, it would be illegal. End of rant.
During my mentee’s senior year of high school, we went on a college visiting trip. I took her to Maryland, to see a couple of colleges I thought might be a good fit if she were willing to go that far from her family.
She wasn’t, but we had a lovely trip anyway.
At some point, she asked me to show her my houses. I’d owned 3 over 25 years in the area, so that sounded like fun. Going back “home” is never really what we expect, however.
My former houses were different in all the predictable ways - and that was just on the outside. I think the most painful part for me, as a gardener, is seeing my gardens decimated, or planted over with lawn. I put love and time and energy into growing them, and I really wanted them to succeed.
I’ve also put love and time and energy into the daughters I’ve been fortunate enough to raise. I want them to succeed and flourish. Seeing my “other daughter” living in fear of deportation and daily stress for her community is quite the opposite from what I hoped for for her as an American citizen, which she became before she went off to college.
At this point, US citizenship doesn’t mean as much as it should.
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